MISCHIEF NIGHT
by
James Kaine
Copyright © 2024 James Kaine
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All rights reserved.
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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Cover design by: Matt Seff Barnes
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Author's Note:
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Thanks for being a newsletter subscriber and checking out my little experiment with serialized horror!
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Before we dive in, I want to let you know that while I take every care to make sure this story is as polished as possible, this is a unique case as in that you're reading this book as I'm writing it, so, while I'd love to be able to put out a typo/error-free product, this is not being reviewed by a professional editor before you read it.
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So, if you see any typos or glaring errors, feel free to point them out to me by emailing me at james@jameskaine.com and I'll make sure it gets fixed.
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Once the story is completely finished, I'll have it overlooked by a proofreader and then convert it to an EPUB and deliver you and every other subscriber their own copy.
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This is going to be a fun story (as fun as a story with some horrible shit it it can be that is). I'm not currently planning on publishing it because it takes place in the world of John Carpenter's Halloween and I wanted to throw some little nods in here and there. If I ever do decide to publish, I'll take those out, but you'll still get the original version to keep!
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With that out of the way, let the mischief begin!
CHAPTER 1​
October 30, 1978
Jack Kelly felt the rain hit his face as he walked through the doors of the sanitarium for what he vowed would be the last time. He dropped to his knees, arms outstretched as he drank in his newfound freedom, praising Ba’al for granting it through his surrogate. The night was cold and the ground was muddy, staining the white hospital gown that did little to provide cover from the late autumn chill. But Jack didn’t care.
He was free.
It was only a few minutes ago that he sat in his room, writing his latest sermon as the tremors from the evening’s shock therapy made holding the pen difficult. He wasn’t allowed to have a pen, of course, but Mick, the idiot orderly, was an easy target for pickpocketing. As Jack had filled up nearly the entire roll of toilet paper with his musings on his lord and greater purpose, he heard a loud crack and turned just in time to see the door to his room fly open.
For just a moment, he locked eyes with the thing that had broken the door. Yes, it had the shape of a man, but Jack knew better. It had an earthly name, but the other inmates had taken to referring to it as The Boogeyman, a moniker Jack had to agree was fitting.
Jack was surprised that it was he who had done this. The Boogeyman had been here for much longer than Jack—since he was a child—but it didn’t speak and rarely moved. The thing lived in a near-constant state of catatonia. But now, looking into the black eyes of his liberator, Jack understood it was a dark angel sent by Ba’al.
The Boogeyman barely spared Jack a second of its attention before moving on down the hallway. Jack could hear other doors splintering as the thing freed the others. It truly was sent by his savior.
After allowing himself a moment to indulge his delight at his newfound liberty, Jack rose to his feet and started toward the front gate. He approached the small booth where he assumed a security guard would sit, checking visitors for the proper credentials as they sought entry to the hospital. His assessment was correct.
There was a guard stationed in the booth—a pudgy man looking to be in his sixties—but he was slumped in his chair, his head on the desk. By the position of his body, it should have been face down, but his neck was clearly broken as his dead eyes stared at the ceiling of the booth. A displaced vertebra stretched the skin from the inside, threatening to rip through the flesh. Those dead eyes registered the shock and horror of his final moments.
Jack stepped into the booth and searched the corpse for weapons. Unfortunately, the dead man didn’t have a gun, but he had a baton and that would do nicely. He also had a can of pepper spray.
While Jack had procured weapons, he had nowhere to store them, given his only clothing was the hospital gown. He looked back at the dead guard, who presented his solution.
The guard was larger than Jack, but comparable in height. Jack knew that security would be scrambling to round up the escapees, so he worked quickly to swap the gown for the guard’s uniform.
As he changed, he heard the phone in the booth ring. The small, closed-circuit monitor on the desk revealed the image of a man on the phone on the other side of the gate.
Jack recognized the man, who was bald with a graying goatee and wearing a trench coat over his tweed sport jacket. He was a doctor here at the hospital, although he never seemed to attend to any of the patients outside of The Boogeyman and, even then, it didn’t appear he was much interested in anything other than continuing its incarceration. He had even once overheard the doctor call it pure evil during an argument with an administrator.
He didn’t pick up the phone—nor did he intend to—but he saw the manic look in the doctor’s eyes, a look that would not have been out of place on any of the unwitting residents of this psychiatric facility.
As Jack finished swapping clothes with the dead guard, he saw the doctor turn and run away from the gate. He didn’t know what had diverted the man’s attention, but before long, he heard screeching tires, glass breaking and a woman’s screams from the outside.
Using the distraction to his advantage, Jack pressed the button and slipped through the gate, passing the last barrier to freedom.
Once on the other side, he saw the brake lights of a station wagon rapidly fading as it drove away from the hospital. Off to the left, the doctor was attending to a nurse who had fallen into a ditch. He seemed to be checking on her, but didn’t help her up. Instead, he started running back toward the hospital while Jack slipped into the trees.​​​​​​
The sound of the sirens and commotion surrounding the breakout faded as Jack made his way deeper into the woods. He wasn’t sure where he was heading. He had lived in another section of the state when he was captured and the asylum he had called home for the past five years was a good distance from where he had led his small, but loyal, congregation. It didn’t matter. Ba’al would guide him.
He reached a small clearing and took a moment to rest under a large white oak tree. It blocked some of the rain, but not all, as drops still pelted his face.
Jack didn’t mind, though. He was free. Free to continue the work that his incarceration had prevented this past half-decade.
Jack remembered when he had first met Ba’al. He was living on the streets of Chicago. He had only been back from Vietnam for seven months, but he had returned to a country that had turned its back on him. Protestors at the airport spat on him and called him baby killer. He had gone to fight for his country and came back with nothing, not even the respect of the people whose freedom he had battled to protect.
Although that wasn’t entirely accurate. He returned with an opiate addiction that resulted in him living on the street within a scant few months of leaving the service.
He had moved from shelter to shelter, eventually concerned with little else than where he would get his next fix. He had no family to speak of and, having seen and done horrid things in the name of fighting the great evil that was communism, he cared little for his own survival. Although Jack had never considered killing himself, he often felt that not only was he not afraid of death, but he would welcome it when it came.
It was on a rainy night in 1971 when death came to him, but not to take his soul, but to recruit him for a greater purpose. The man in the suit who approached him in the alley introduced himself as Bill, but as they chatted in the diner that evening, Jack understood him to be Ba’al, one of the chief demons of hell. The man promised him salvation, but he needed to grow an army of his own. That was where Jack would come in.
The man took Jack to a secluded cabin where he spent the next three days detoxing in unfathomable agony. As he sweated and shook while the toxins slowly exited his body, his vision filled with hallucinations of demons, hellfire and blood. It was at this time that he saw Ba’al’s true form and pledged his eternal allegiance to his demon master.
When Jack awoke on the fourth day, lying in a puddle of drool and piss on the cabin floor, he found he was alone. Ba’al was gone, and there was no evidence that he had even been there at all. For the briefest of moments, Jack questioned if he had been real at all, but he knew in his heart that he was. And, more than that, he knew he now had a purpose.
He traveled across the state of Illinois for the next year, looking to recruit wayward souls to his cause. Promising them they could have everything they could ever want, Jack would take them to his cabin where he would spend three days inflicting pain and torture upon them, mirroring the three days of suffering he himself had experienced. Many did not survive, but that was okay because, if they wouldn’t become Ba’al’s subjects, they would be sacrificed in his honor. Either way, Jack’s dark lord would be satisfied.
When the cops broke into the cabin in 1973, he had recruited three other disciples to his cause, but they were all killed in a firefight. Jack himself was wounded, but by Ba’al’s mercy, survived. He was put on trial but found mentally unfit for a criminal conviction. That’s when he was remanded to the sanitarium he had just escaped after it served as his home these past five years.
He tried to continue his ministry inside, but the other patients were too mentally disturbed to embrace Ba’al’s gospel. There was one patient, however, who seemed to embrace what Jack had to say, but he was a demented sexual predator and too erratic to be a true disciple. The reminiscence made Jack think.
Did Oliver make it out as well?
Oliver Craft wasn’t an ideal follower, but he could be useful. He certainly had a level of enthusiasm that could be exploited if the right carrot were dangled in front of him. As if the mere thought of the man’s name could conjure him out of thin air, Jack heard a voice behind him.
“Father!”
He turned to see Oliver running up to him. The small man was short of stature, with a wispy frame and stringy, shoulder-length hair that clung to his sunken cheeks as he ran through the rain to catch up.
“Father Jack!” he repeated.
“Oliver?” Jack asked, even though it was clearly him. It was less about questioning if he was really here and more about his surprise that he had been resourceful—or lucky—enough to find him. “How did you find me?”
The skinny man stopped in front of him and hunched over, hands on his knees, as he caught his breath. After a moment, he looked up at Jack, his dark eyes hidden behind the tangles of hair hanging down in front of his face.
“I saw you as you were leaving the security booth, Father Jack.”
“I told you, Oliver, I’m not a priest. Not in that sense. You don’t have to refer to me as Father.”
“I’m sorry, Fat–. Jack. And it’s Ollie. I hate it when people call me Oliver.”
Jack had gotten that impression early on, but still continued to use his full name. If he was going to join him on his crusade, he would have to get used to things he didn’t like, even something so benign as referring to him by a name he didn’t like.
“If you plan on joining me, I’ll refer to you as I please. Oliver.”
Ollie’s face scrunched with mild irritation, but he didn’t protest any further. Instead, he asked, “Where are we going?”
Jack looked off into the distance, contemplating that question himself. In the immediacy, he just wanted to get as far away from the sanitarium as possible. Eventually, he would have to find somewhere to take shelter and plan how to get out of the state. There were plenty of places beyond Illinois to continue his ministry.
Before he could answer, he heard another, different voice off to his left.
“Hey! Don’t move!”
Jack and Ollie turned in time to be blinded by a flashlight beam. Jack put his forearm up to shield his eyes enough to see Mick, the idiot orderly holding a flashlight in one hand and a baton in another.
Jack’s own baton was sheathed in the guard’s belt he now wore. He contemplated if he should reach for it. Mick didn’t appear to have a gun, but his weapon was already out and ready to strike. Ollie wouldn’t likely be much help given his slight frame and predilection to only preying on those weaker than him. While Mick was not big on brains, he looked like he could easily pummel Ollie into submission. That would put the two of them in a one-on-one brawl, and Jack couldn’t confidently say it would be one he could win.
He chose not to engage and put his hands out in front of him to show that he was unarmed. Ollie looked confused initially, but followed the other man’s lead, doing the same.
“That’s Bob’s uniform, you sick fuck. You did that to him!” Mick spat at the escaped mental patient.
“No, Mick, I found him like that. He didn’t have any use for these any more, so I took them. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Bullshit!” the angry orderly yelled as he took a step forward. “You’re going to pay for this!”
He went to take another step forward but before his footfall can land, something struck him from behind and he tumbled forward, hitting the mud with a splat as his baton slid from his grip, sliding along the rain-slicked ground. Ollie eagerly snatched it up while Jack peered into the darkness beyond to see what had taken the man out.
A large shape emerged from the darkness between the trees. As it came into view, Jack recognized Wallace Little, a man whose impressive stature contradicted his surname. Standing at six-foot-two, his mass was the human equivalent of one of these oak trees. He was another patient who didn’t speak, but one could see a dim awareness reside in his eyes. Jack always felt there was more to him than he let on. He smiled at the man who had, at least momentarily, prevented them from being recaptured.
Mick tried to get back to his feet, but was met with an uppercut from Ollie’s newly gained baton. The blow landed with a sickening crack and sent the orderly flying onto his back, his head again landing with a splat in the mud. He coughed violently, spitting up blood and shards of broken teeth.
Jack’s smile widened as he approached the downed man and crouched beside him.
“You should have just let us go, Mick,” he said. “You would have gotten to go home to your wife tonight.”
Mick rolled to his side and pushed off his left hand to try again to get up, but Jack stood first and stomped on the hand that wore the simple gold wedding band.
“Fuck!” he shouted as Jack ground his foot into his knuckles as if he were stamping out a cigarette.
“You could always renounce this life you lead and follow us. What do you say?”
Mick looked up at him and answered, blood spilling out of his mouth and mingling with the rain as he did.
“I say go fuck yourself, you psycho.”
Jack’s grin left his face as soon as the words came out.
“That’s unfortunate.” He turned his attention to the large inmate. “How about you, Wallace? Would you like to join me in service to Ba’al?”
Wallace did not answer. At least not verbally. Instead, he reached down and grabbed the orderly by his collar, lifting him up as easily as one would pick up an infant. He hoisted him higher to the point where his feet dangled off the ground. Mick started to panic and grabbed Wallace’s wrists, trying desperately to pry himself free. But it was no use. The large man was too strong.
Jack watched with delight as Wallace carried the orderly to a tree with a thick, jagged branch protruding from the trunk. The big man released one side of the collar with his left hand as he maintained control with his right. He put the now free hand on the man’s forehead and drove him into the branch.
The wood immediately and forcefully pierced the back of the man’s neck. As Wallace drove him further, Jack saw the skin on the front of his throat stretch for a moment before the branch exited with a gout of blood splashing his attacker’s face. Wallace registered no emotion as he stepped away, leaving Mick impaled on the branch.
The orderly thrashed desperately, reaching up to try somehow to extract the branch from his throat. He tried to scream, but it only came out in choked gurgles as blood seeped out of his mouth and the gaping hole in his neck.
Ollie laughed at the macabre scene while Wallace stood in front of the dying man. Jack took it all in and thought that, while these two were raw, he could mold them into efficient disciples.
It didn’t take long for Mick to die, his hands falling limply from the branch that killed him and coming to rest at his sides while his body hung lifeless.
“Wallace?” Jack asked. The man turned to him and Jack regarded him for a moment, watching as the downpour washed the blood from his face. The dark crimson fading into a lighter shade as the rain soaked the thin material. “Would you like to join us?”
Wallace seemed to contemplate the offer, again displaying an intelligence that others didn’t always see in him. After a moment, he nodded.
“Excellent!” Jack exclaimed before turning to his other companion. “And you Oliver? I assume you have the stomach for this work?”
Ollie looked like he was trying not to register his annoyance at Jack persisting in calling him Oliver. He nodded and said, “I’m with you.”
“Then follow me. We have much to do.”
CHAPTER 2​
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Susan Moran blinked the sleep out of her eyes as the wipers worked to stay ahead of the downpour. She gripped the steering wheel tightly at ten and two as the worn-down vehicle puttered down the rural highway.
Fortunately, she was familiar with the route, but the one-hundred-and-fifty-mile drive from Haddonfield to her brother’s farm in Warren County, which usually took two-and-a-half hours, was now clocking over three thanks to the storm. Combine that with the emotional toll the past months had inflicted on her, left her physically and mentally exhausted.
A small groan escaped from the backseat. Susan turned and saw that Billy was curled up on the bench seat, asleep, but restless. The eight-year-old’s cherubic features hidden with his back toward her.
The sight of her son triggered a resurgence of resolve that tamped down her fatigue, but also brought tears to her eyes.
She felt a slight stinging sensation in her left forearm. Glancing over, she saw the deep purple bruise exposed where the sleeve of her raincoat had slid down. Hoping to avoid the memory it was sure to trigger, she quickly pulled it over the contusion, but it was too late.
Charles’s face flashed in her mind’s eye. It wasn’t the handsome rough-around-the-edges man she’d married only a scant few years out of high school. Rather, it was the bitter, violent drunk who routinely used his wife and child as surrogates for the world on which he blamed his litany of failures. Somewhere along the line, her childhood sweetheart had become a monster.
Susan couldn’t pinpoint one specific moment where Charles had become a monster. It was a slow build, starting with bouts of moodiness. Before long, he started drinking an extra beer after work. Then two. Then three. Before long, she’d practically have to carry him from his recliner to their bedroom more evenings than not. The worst part was that it would often give him a second wind. That would typically result in sex that was unsatisfying at best and violative at worst.
But God forbid she say “no” and shirk her wifely duties. The rare instances where she’d tried to decline would inevitably result in a barrage of vile insults.
Bitch. Whore. Cunt.
The man who had once stood before an altar while promising to love, honor, and cherish her now routinely used his words to dehumanize her.
Susan shouldn’t have been surprised the first time he hit her. But she was.
It was after Billy’s third birthday party. Their son was a summer baby and a backyard barbecue was a good way to accommodate their families, with their meager home only offering limited space. With the yard available and the weather cooperating, they could have everyone over. Susan’s parents, grandmother and her brother’s family all attended along with Charles’s father, who came in from Russellville, where he had moved after his wife had passed away.
The party had started surprisingly well. Charles manned the grill and looked genuinely happy as he slung burgers and hot dogs. He was cordial with her family and, at one point, ran around the yard in a circle with Billy seated on his shoulders, arms outstretched, pretending to be an airplane. His sweet, toddler giggle was music to her ears.
It was during the singing of Happy Birthday that Susan noticed Charles starting to slur. The memory permeated her mind and her gut tightened, just as it had in that moment. Slurred speech was almost always a precursor of worse things to come.
Worse came after the last of the guests had left. Charles had plopped himself on his recliner and opened a fresh beer, having easily crossed double digits at that point. The house was a mess, both inside and out, and it was up to Susan to clean up while also tending to an increasingly tired and cranky Billy. The boy’s whines were intensifying, fueled by sugar and exhaustion.
Susan was doing her best to keep it together, but she was tired too. Even under ideal circumstances, hosting was exhausting. She had to keep things moving while also trying to be social with her guests. By the time the event winded down, the idea of tossing the garbage and trying to get the house back to its normal state felt daunting. She would have been more than happy to finish up in the morning, but she knew Charles would be furious if he woke up to a mess.
So here she was, trying to wash the grill utensils while Billy slammed his new toys about. The fire truck with an actual siren her in-laws had gifted him being especially grating at the moment. She spared a glance toward her husband and saw his face slowly twisting in irritation at the racket.
Not wanting to raise his ire, she haphazardly tossed a dish towel on the counter as she moved toward her child. In the process, she inadvertently knocked over one of the empty beer bottles that her husband had carelessly left strewn about. She heard the initial clink as it toppled onto the granite surface. For a split second, she registered relief, but the bottle began rolling toward the edge of the counter. Susan thought she could intercept it before it went over the edge, but she was a step too slow. The bottle felt like it hung in the air for several moments before finally shattering on impact with the linoleum. Shards of glass cascaded across the floor as Susan yelped and jumped back, snatching Billy up in her arms to prevent him from getting cut. The boy yowled, startled by the commotion.
Back then, Susan had begun to fear her husband, but had not yet felt the abject terror his presence would eventually come to elicit. She knew it wasn’t a good idea to say what she would say, that it would surely result in a deluge of profanity and nastiness. But she was just too damn tired and frustrated at that moment to choose discretion.
“God damn it, Charles! Can I get a little help over here?”
The words were out, and she regretted them. Not because she was wrong to feel frustrated, but because she feared the reaction it would elicit. It didn’t matter. They were out and she had to own them.
Charles’s reaction was not initially explosive. In fact, it was calm. Too calm. For a moment, she thought maybe she’d gotten through to him. Maybe he saw his wife struggling and his child crying and recognized their need for help.
That notion was dispelled when his face took on the hue of the fire truck. His eyes burned with intensity, and his posture stiffened as he rose from the chair.
Susan knew she wasn’t in the wrong in expecting her husband to help her. To be kind to her, but the next words out of her mouth didn’t comport with her true feelings. They came out in a meek, whispered plea.
“I’m sorry…”
A slap across the cheek told her the apology wasn’t accepted.
The initial impact didn’t bring pain. It just felt like a sharp, sudden pressure on her cheek. Susan instinctively tightened her grip on her son, whose screams had increased in vociferousness, his face turning as red as the firetruck. While she focused on not dropping her son, the stinging set in and her eyes watered.
When she righted her head, she was met with another slap, this one stinging instantly and causing her to bite her lip. She tasted the coppery tinge of blood as her ears rung from the jolt.
“Watch your fucking mouth, bitch,” Charles spat. “Talk to me like that again and I’ll put you through the fucking wall.”
Susan was stunned, not sure how to react to what had just happened. Her husband had struck her. Twice. Should she hit him back? She couldn’t inflict any type of actual damage on him. Call the police? Good luck with that. Grab a butcher knife and plunge it into his throat? Every imaginable emotion swirled through her simultaneously, stirring a wave of nausea that made her feel like she may lose her balance. She pulled Billy tighter, the toddler screaming into her shoulder, a mix of his tears and spittle soaking her shirt.
She opened her mouth to say something. She wasn’t sure what. As she did, Charles raised his hand again. His hand was no longer open. It was clenched in a fist.
“If the next word out of your mouth isn’t ‘I understand,’ I’ll break your fucking jaw.”
“I…I…I…”
He tightened the fist, the knuckles whitening.
“You fucking what?” he bellowed.
“I understand,” she choked out, the words stinging as bad as her cheek, a betrayal of her dignity.
Charles lowered his hand and unclenched the fist as the redness faded from his face. Susan wanted to take a step back, but dare not move, unsure of what else would raise his ire again.
He tilted his head, considering her while she fought unsuccessfully to keep the tears in her eyes. His focus stayed on her, but he raised his hand again, slow and gentle, his hand open. He placed it on Billy’s head. The boy’s screams had diminished into whimpers while his face remained hidden in his mother’s shoulder. Even though he couldn’t see who had made contact with him, he recoiled at the touch.
Charles withdrew his hand as if burned. Susan had broken eye contact and saw the tsunami of rage rise again along with the crimson flush of his skin. She wanted to take Billy and run out the door as fast as she could, but she was frozen. Her feet may as well have been part of the linoleum. But she couldn’t let him hurt her son. She just couldn’t.
While she stood in fear before the man she loved, she saw him relax his posture and breathe a heavy sigh, the color again draining back to a normal shade. He reached his hand back up to Billy’s head. Thankfully, the boy didn’t resist while his father ruffled his hair. He leaned in and gave the boy a kiss on the cheek.
“Happy birthday, buddy.” He turned back to Susan. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
Although he turned to exit the room without another word, Charles had one last statement to make as he swiped his arm across the counter, sending empty beer bottles, utensils, and the quarter of Billy’s birthday cake that remained. Her grandmother’s decorative crystal cake dish exploded on impact along with the empty brown beer bottles, adding to the blanket of glass that shrouded the floor. Billy screamed again while Susan stifled hers.
Susan knew her marriage had shattered along with the glass on that fateful night, but it took her five years to get the courage to make her escape. The memory of that moment brought a fresh, phantom sting to the weary woman’s cheek. She had been struck so many times in the half-decade since that initial abuse that the sensation was now as familiar as brushing her teeth. The resolve that it would never happen again intensified along with her grip on the steering wheel.
Billy moaned again in his sleep and Susan looked back to make sure he was okay.
The boy rolled to his opposite side, his sleep remaining restless. After flipping, Susan saw the purple that had formed across the lower part of the boy’s jaw in the hours since his father had struck him.
That was the first time Charles had raised his hand to Billy. And it was the final straw for Susan.
A simple Lego block had caused it. Billy had missed it when he cleaned up and Charles, already late for work and in a hangover-enhanced foul mood, stepped on it with his bare foot. His reaction was apoplectic.
Charles had stormed into the boy’s room with Susan giving chase, pleading with her husband to understand that he didn’t mean to. He completely disregarded his wife as he grabbed the whimpering child by his shirt and yanked him to his feet.
“You lazy little shit!” Charles spat
Billy was as confused as he was terrified.
“I’m sorry, Daddy! Why are you mad? I’m sorry!”
Charles didn’t give the boy an explanation, just a slap in the face, the biggest impact of which settled on his son’s jaw where it was now purple. He released his grip on Billy’s shirt, letting him fall hard on his bottom, exacerbating his hurt, both physical and emotional.
He said nothing else to his son. Didn’t show a hint of remorse. If Susan had any type of weapon, she may well have ended him right then and there. But, despite her boiling hatred for her husband, she had to remain calm to protect her son her son in this powder keg situation.
Charles gave his wife a death glare on the way out of the room, delivering a directive in a calm but menacing tone.
“Clean this fucking house by the time I get home.”
Fifteen minutes later, Susan remained cradling her son on his bed, his cries had faded to whimpers and the tears that had fallen on his Star Wars sheets had slowed to a trickle.
She watched as Charles walked by the door, the sunlight from the open windows glinting off the olive -colored leather of his Haddonfield Sheriff’s Department as he passed. The uniform itself was a mockery.
To serve and protect. Bullshit.
Charles spared only the slightest glimpse in his family’s direction. He shook his head disdainfully and continued on.
When the door opened and closed a minute later, Susan gently extracted herself from Billy’s grip and gently rested him on his bed before rushing to the window and watching as the police cruiser drove off. She stood transfixed at the window for almost twenty minutes, terrified that Charles would return, having forgotten his wallet or, maybe, just to abuse them some more.
Finally, she sprang into action, and, after a brief call to her brother, Kevin, she was on the road with Billy in the backseat, vowing to leave Haddonfield and her boogeyman behind forever.
“Billy. Wake up, sweetie. We’re almost at Uncle Kevin’s.”
Susan reached back and gently nudged the boy without taking her eyes off the road. She was careful with her touch, aware that her son was surely still on edge following his father’s assault. He stirred and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Just a few more minutes,” Susan continued.
The rain was still coming down hard, and the wipers were straining to swipe it away. The rural road’s dearth of streetlights made the lack of visibility even worse.
Something caught Susan’s attention out the driver’s side window. Beyond the dense cluster of trees, large beams of light swayed behind the raindrops. She wondered what their purpose was. They were inland, so it wasn’t a lighthouse. Searchlights, perhaps? If so, searching for what? It didn’t matter, because they weren’t going to help her from this vantage point. In fact, something about them unsettled her as a light chill ran through her body.
She was so distracted, she only saw the faded street sign that read Hill Road, after she was past the turn. She tried to brake, but she did it too hard. Panic set in as the pedal trembled beneath her foot as the car swerved. She did her best to keep the wheel steady as the car hydroplaned onto the shoulder, finally coming to a stop well past the turn and only about a foot from a large oak tree.
Susan placed a hand over her chest as her heart pounded, thanking God that there were no other cars on the road. As she focused on slowing her breath, she felt a small touch on her shoulder.
“Are you okay, Mommy?” the small voice came from the back seat.
She didn’t look back, not wanting Billy to see how scared she was, but she placed her hand over his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m okay, baby. Are you okay?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned to see him. He was trying to put on a brave face, but she could see how scared he was. Still, he offered, “I’m okay.”
As Susan composed herself, she noticed a pair of headlights approaching from the opposite direction. At first, she didn’t think too much of it, but, as the Station Wagon passed, the chill she had felt upon viewing the spotlights not only returned, it intensified. It was as if the devil himself were in that car.
She couldn’t make out the driver, just a shape through the rain-streaked glass, but she felt as if he were watching her. The seal she quickly glimpsed on the side of the door read For Official Use Only. Despite that, the unease she felt made her feel whoever was driving wouldn’t be helpful. After all, her husband was a county official and he was a monster.
The Station Wagon passed, but Susan’s apprehension persisted. She slowly reached for the gearshift to get the car back moving, praying that it wasn’t stuck in the mud.
As she shifted to drive, the Station Wagon’s brake lights brightened as it came to a stop.
Susan’s heart skipped a beat, and her breath caught in her throat.
For a moment, she thought she was overreacting. The vehicle was clearly government issue and she was a civilian stopped on the side of the road during a rainstorm. The driver was probably going to back up and offer help.
So why was she filled with such pronounced dread?
It only got worse when the Station Wagon remained in place.
What the hell was he doing?
She wasn’t about to wait and find out. When her car moved off the shoulder without resistance, she felt relief creep in. She quickly, but carefully, made a U-turn, keeping her eyes on the other idle vehicle as she made the turn down Hill Road.
It was a long, dark & narrow road and Susan’s eyes continually darted from watching her route to checking the rearview mirror, scared that she would see the Station Wagon following her.
But it never did. The driver clearly had somewhere else to be.
Ten minutes after turning onto the road, Susan came to a clearing and felt genuine relief as her brother’s farm came into view through the still-torrential downpour.
The modest farmhouse looked weathered, with a large wraparound porch and wood siding. Despite the remote locale, the glow of electric light emanated from inside. Several outbuildings framed the exterior. Having been here many times, Susan recognized, and took comfort at the sight of the barn and chicken coop. Toward the back of the property was the toolshed, but it wasn’t visible through the storm.
While Kevin raised pigs on the farm, they weren’t roaming in the pens- she guessed because of the weather. Even then, he didn’t have many. His primary output was corn and soybeans. Susan wished she had opted for a simpler life, like her brother had. Not that farming wasn’t hard—she knew Kevin worked his ass off—but her years of being a social butterfly only brought her to people who used and abused her. But she knew she wouldn’t find people like that here,
This was her first step toward reclaiming her life.
Susan parked next to Kevin’s worn-out, but somehow still-functional, pickup truck. Billy climbed into the front seat and huddled close to her as she opened the door. Using her rain coat to shield her son, Susan quickly bound up the stairs.
She didn’t even have to knock as she saw her brother standing to one side in the open doorway, leaving a wide enough berth for them to enter, saving greetings for when they were out of the elements.
Once inside, Kevin barely got the door closed behind him before Susan flung her arms around her brother and pulled him in tight for a hug, tears flowing freely as she found comfort and relief in her sibling. Kevin hugged her back, caring little that she was soaking wet.
“It’s okay, Suse,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”
If you, or someone you know, has been the victim of domestic violence, help is available through THE NATIONAL DOMESTIC VIOLENCE HOTLINE. Call 1-800-799-7233 or text BEGIN to 88788.